


Dinner Is Served

by BloodyAbattoir



Series: Life Goes On [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannibalism, Goretober, Goretober 2020, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: A guy's gotta eat, right?
Series: Life Goes On [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307129
Kudos: 1





	Dinner Is Served

**Author's Note:**

> Goretober 2020, Day 1, prompt 'cannibalism' from the list generated by The-Book-Of-Madness on Tumblr.

The smell of the meat is mouthwatering despite the lack of seasonings, the lack of proper cookware. For a moment, I allow myself to fantasize - what would is smell like, what would it _taste_ like if by some miracle I stumbled upon some dried herbs in one of the dilapidated houses that are but a smudge on the horizon? The choicest cuts of meat are gone, if you could call them such, all lean meat and connective tissue and altogether too much bone.

Mentally, I begin to divide up the leftovers, stringy scraps of muscle under a paperthin layer of fat. It wasn't much, and with a sigh, I factor in some of the organs - liver, kidneys, heart, brain, pancreas. Perhaps the tongue, if there's anything left of it, and marrow from the long bones of the arms and legs, if I could find a sufficiently large rock to crack them open. I've already lost a tooth some time ago gnawing on bones in desperation. Even now, months later, pain shoots through my jaw at random when I chew. It isn't an experience that I'm keen on repeating again. 

The meat turns on the makeshift spit, and not for the first time, I'm forced to laugh at myself. A year ago, I was a hotshot real estate agent, partying it up and schmoozing with some of the best in the business, laughing at those who were less fortunate. I'd never imagined that I'd end up in a position like this, living less than hand-to-mouth, killing for my next meal when before I was a privileged prick who, shamefully enough, was confident in telling vagrants and panhandlers to fuck off without a single gram of empathy or sympathy. 

Of course, that was before The Final War happened, rendering your career field obsolete, along with many others. After all, you couldn't sell any houses when there were few houses left standing and cash was worth more as the paper it was printed on than the actual monetary value written on it. Of course, that didn't stop people, stupid and rich, from trying to use it anyway in an attempt to secure housing and food. Eventually, we all realized it didn't matter how many figures we had in our bank accounts, it only mattered what we had to trade, whether that was in worldly goods or skills. 

In a matter of weeks, what was left of society was restructured - the elderly, the disabled, all the ones we considered expendable, were now some of the most valued for their vast wealth of knowledge, life experience, or in some cases, the ability to do things we scoffed at. After all, what was the use of making your own soap at home when you could pop into the corner store and buy a pack in a few minutes time? Why bother growing your own food or making your own clothing when you could simply pay someone else to do it for you? 

Meanwhile, the people we had previously idolized, the celebrities and billionaires, the Instagram influencers and reality TV stars, all were reduced to the status of the common man, if not below that. After all, the common person displayed a range of competencies that most of these once-famous people did not. They were shunned, suddenly being the burden on the pockets of society that remained. Many, like myself, were forced to wander what was left of the earth, fending for ourselves. 

Finally, blessedly, my meal has finished cooking. Dinner is served. This time last year, that phrase meant a three course dinner, or perhaps a notification that the delivery driver had arrived with my takeout. This time last year, it meant eating at a fancy restaurant, or otherwise at the dinner table, or maybe the coffee table in front of the telly, utensils scraping across nice china, slowly gouging the surface. Tonight, this phrase means that the muscles of my last travel companion have finally sizzled and cooked to perfection. Tonight, it means biting into the still-popping meat without even bothering to remove it from the spit it was turning on, burning my tongue in the process, not even bothering to wipe away the grease from my chin between bites. 

Overall, it wasn't horrible, but it could've used some salt.


End file.
